The mailman always runslate on Saturdays,my brother and I stare outthe living room windowwith growling stomachs,ma was in the kitchen bangingpots and pans, singing a hymn,we don’t know the words

II

Poverty is a vice, we struggleNot to be choked on itsexpectations of us, a repeatedcycle, ma always told useducation was the way out,“Do better than me,” she wouldsay, I had all As on my report card,my brother could spell his name

III

The mailman arrives like Apollopulling the sun across the sky. I swearthe house grew brighter, our stomachsstopped growling and the birds chirpedin the gnarled trees, we would eattoday and every day for at least a monthbefore ma would start singing hymns again